


Put Your Hand on the Glass

by zanzibar



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Kaner con Queso, M/M, insomniac theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanzibar/pseuds/zanzibar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think we need to discuss the fact that you can’t sleep unless you’re watching the NHL Network,”</p><p>“It’s relaxing,” Johnny protests and Patrick snorts a little.</p><p>In which Johnny has trouble sleeping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put Your Hand on the Glass

**Author's Note:**

> So. This happened. And this is not any of the things I intended to write. But here it is and honestly, it makes me laugh a little.
> 
> Title stolen from JT's Mirrors. Because. Yes.

The phone wakes Patrick up from his afternoon nap. The leather on the couch is cool against his face and all the muscles in his body ache a little from this morning’s workout. He fumbles for the phone, squints at the name on his phone and slides his fingers across the screen to answer.

“I need you to stop being on TV,” 

“Wait,” Patrick pulls the phone away from his ear and checks the caller ID again, “What?”

“Your 36 hour thing is on NHL Network all the time,” Johnny’s voice is the dull monotone that Pat associates with afternoon naps and relaxation and easy nights of movies and couch time.

“You realize that I don’t actually have anything to do with that, right?” Patrick settles deeper back into the couch cushions and tries to gauge, based on the reflection of the sun on the lake, how long he has until he can reasonably eat dinner. “It’s August, like all they basically have to show is replays of the playoffs, that weird show about the Wild and like 5 episodes on NHL 36.”

“Everytime I turn on the TV you’re on,” Johnny grumbles.

“I miss you too, sweetheart,” Patrick grins, “shouldn’t you be like out running 14 miles to wind down after a day of intense skating and weightlifting?”

“I did run,” Johnny admits, “only 5 miles because the season’s getting close.”

“Well, slacker,” Patrick grins, “I ran 4 miles, but I got up at the ass crack so I could finish before it got hot.”

“Morning is for fishing,” Johnny answers quickly.

“I’m not getting up at the ass crack to commune with the fishes you freakazoid,” Patrick laughs, “morning is for pounding it out on the pavement before anyone can see my ass huffing and puffing up the hills.”

“Just wear a hat Pat, that way no one knows it’s you,”

“Why are you fishing in Winnipeg,” Patrick replays the conversation in his head, “just go to the grocery store.”

“I’m in Kenora,” Johnny says, “I wanted more time at the lake.”

Patrick hums tunelessly and Johnny laughs on the other end of the phone.

* * *

“You’re on TV again,” the voice is drier this time.

“Are you drunk dialling me,” Patrick waves his beer around and tries to swallow the gleeful giggles that bubble up. “Because if you are this might rival winning the Cup as far as greatest nights of my life.”

“I do not drunk dial,” Johnny protests.

“You also don’t crowd surf at bars or moonwalk on center ice. But I have photographic evidence that both of those things happened.”

“That wasn’t me,” Johnny fills in automatically and grins a little when Patrick snorts.

They talk a little about training, about what they’ve seen from the Cup’s travels overseas and gossip from the weddings that have happened this summer. Patrick’s been skating for 3 weeks to Johnny’s 2 and he chirps Johnny for being lazy and then spends 20 minutes detailing this crazy skating thing they’ve been doing with like ankle weights and a weight vest and resistance training that basically means that when all Pat has to wear is his gear - suddenly he feels like he’s flying.

Johnny snorts at really inopportune time during the story and Patrick stops talking to listen to him chuckle to himself.

“Am I being funny,”

“No, your dad is,” Johnny admits. “I love it when he orders Sharpie’s burrito and you look at him like he just gave one of your sisters to the gypsies.”

“I’ve never forgiven him for that,” Patrick sighs dramatically, “I can’t believe Sharpie won the burrito contest.”

“You scored,” Johnny pauses, because he’s still distracted by the TV, “you scored the Stanley Cup winning, overtime goal in 2010. This year you were MVP of the playoffs. I’m pretty sure you should just let Sharpie have his sizzling burrito victory and go home with your trophies.”

“Maybe I can eat burritos out of the Stanley Cup,” Patrick opines. “It would be like the American version of Hoss eating perogies out of it.”

“I don’t think burritos are an overly American food though,” Johnny argues.

“The Kaner con Queso is,” Patrick yawns, “it’s about as American as you can get. It’s like those giant cans of Budweiser with American flags on them. So American you can’t even buy them without your passport.”

“God that’s terrible,” Patrick hears the fridge open and bottles clink through the phone line. “I think you aren’t even supposed to buy those. They’re like the hockey goalie chocolate easter eggs, terrible cultural stereotypes propagated through food.”

“You should drink more beer,” Patrick advises, “those last couple of words each had like more than 10 letters. You’re thinking too hard. Also don’t even front, you have totally been given a chocolate Stanley Cup in your life.”

Johnny snorts and doesn’t say anything in response and Patrick jumps to slap the door frame into the kitchen in celebration.

In his darkened kitchen Patrick reaches for a beer of his own and hears the show start up again in the background, “am I trying on your jersey yet?”

“That doesn’t happen for like 10 more minutes dude,” Johnny swallows through the phone and Patrick laughs again.

“I don’t actually know the order of this you know. It’s like eternal second-hand embarrassment to watch myself.”

“It’s not that bad,” Johnny says it quietly, like he’s almost ashamed to admit it, “there’s definitely the potential for it to be worse.”

“Thanks bud, I love you too.”

Johnny snorts on the other end of the phone and they lapse into companionable silence.

* * *

“So you watch all of the 36’s?” Pat’s been wondering about this and he finally had to call and ask, “like do you watch Bergy’s and Richie’s and stuff too? Or is it just mine.”

“This is what I’m saying,” Johnny’s voice is frustrated, “yours is always on.”

“I’ve seen Richie’s though,” Patrick admits, “it makes me laugh when the radio station girl doesn’t recognize him.”

“He likes LA,” Johnny fills in, “He bought a house and Carts is there and his dog. He’s pretty happy.”

“They won the Cup Johnny,” Patrick reminds him, “Holmgren signed them to giant contracts, gave Richie the C and then traded their asses away and they managed to end up on the same team again AND win the Cup. Of course he likes it there.”

Johnny mutters on the other end of the phone to himself.

“Plus,” Patrick continues, “Plus! Have you seen his house? It’s like 3 blocks and he’s at the beach. He plays hockey, and he lives at the beach. He’s like a wizard. He leaves Philly, which is like cold and dirty and obsessed with hockey. And goes to LA, which is warm and sunny and full of avocados and he can go to the grocery store and no one knows who he is AND,” Patrick pauses, because he’s a master of dramatic effects, “AND he WINS the STANLEY CUP.”

“They traded him and his boyfriend away from each other Pat,” Johnny reminds him, “Carts had to go live in Columbus.”

“And that, is a tragedy for sure,” Patrick agrees, “but it sure worked out OK in the end.”

Johnny grunts agreeably and after they’ve hung up Patrick realizes that he’s never gotten an answer to his question.

* * *

“I don’t like this one as much,” 

Patrick tries to blink the blurriness out of his eyes while he rolls over in bed and looks at the moon reflecting off the lake outside his window.

“I think we need to discuss the fact that you can’t sleep unless you’re watching the NHL Network,”

“It’s relaxing,” Johnny protests and Patrick snorts a little.

“So what, is it Neal instead of me or something? Too much Paul Martin cooking and plaid suits and hair product for you or what?”

“It’s the one from this year,” Johnny admits, “that’s about all of us.”

“I like that one better,” Patrick admits, “more about our day, and less about the fact that I’m too short to play professional football.”

“But this one has too much Shawzy,” 

“You love Shawzy,”

“He buys clothes for his dogs. And there’s too much towel folding.”

“But there’s like 11 awesome Q moments, so it’s totally worth it.” Pat reminds him, “there’s the part where he kicks everyone out of the offices so he can take a nap, just like the grumpy old man that he is.”

“It reminds me how much our powerplay sucks.”

“Next year is another year Captain Obsessive Compulsive, I’m sure we’ll adjust.”

“Dogs don’t need sweaters,” Johnny mutters and Patrick snorts and listens to the dull murmur of Johnny’s TV and tries to match his breathing to Johnny’s.

* * *

“You need,” Patrick gestures to the room, empty but for amazing vaulted ceilings, huge windows that overlook the lake and a king-size bed, “things,” he looks at the wide swath of completely bare white walls, “color, Johnny, there is nothing wrong with colors, on walls, and art, pictures, a lamp, something.”

“I don’t,” Johnny rubs the back of his neck and looks at the carpet, “the sheets are navy.”

“The comforter is white too!” Patrick waves his hands, like he’s swimming through all the empty space.

“It’s down,” Johnny sighs, “it came that way.”

“You should hire an interior decorator,” Patrick suggests, “most of what I got for my place is totally terrible, but at least it looks like I live there.”

“I want to do it myself,” Johnny admits, “I don’t want someone else to decide what should feel like home.”

“Well right now it feels like negative home,” Patrick spins to get the full effect, “and I flew here to hang out with you and workout with your trainer and skate with you. We are not going shopping.”

“God no,” Johnny fills in quickly, “maybe next summer, I’ll paint or something.”

“Where even is the TV so that the NHL Network can lull you to sleep,” Patrick sits on the edge of the bed and looks around expectantly.

Johnny sags against the doorway and doesn’t answer.

Patrick leans back on his elbows and waits.

“I haven’t slept here since the first night I was here, OK,” Johnny clenches his fists in frustration, “I sleep on the couch. I drag a pillow and the comforter downstairs and turn on the TV and sleep on the couch.”

“Johnny,” Patrick kicks off his shoes and squirms back further on the bed, “Haven’t I taught you anything. Couches are for naps. Beds are where you actually sleep.”

“I can’t,” Johnny stops there. He paces back and forth in the wide space between the bed and the attached bathroom and shakes his head.

“Words,” Patrick throws one of the pillows in his general direction, “I need you to use some words here.”

Johnny stops and stands with his hands on his hips at the foot of the bed.

“I can’t sleep without you ok? I had 7 months straight of your octopus arms under my pillows and your monkey feet sliding onto my side of the bed every night and I got used to it. And now I need like a Pat stand-in or something.

Pat squawks in protest and Johnny rushes to continue. “I just mean I had to find something that wasn’t you to help me relax and so I watched TV,” he shrugs, “it was relaxing, and I didn’t know how to tell you that your mouth breathing lulls me to sleep.”

“You could have just called,” Patrick scoots to the foot of the bed and hooks a finger in Johnny’s belt loops. “I bought a body pillow and stole three of your t-shirts before we left Chicago, so it’s not like I’m a perfect picture of independence.”

“I didn’t want to miss you at first,” Johnny palms at the side of Pat’s neck, “it seemed like, I don’t know, like missing you made it all too real.”

“We’ve been having sex for 2 years Johnny,” Patrick crinkles his forehead, “that hasn’t been real enough for you?”

“No,” Johnny admits, “it was, but this made it like. Serious. More serious than I thought it was.”

“OK,” Patrick draws the word out, still not understanding.

“I’m in love with you Pat, OK,” Patrick’s face stretches into a grin and Johnny tucks his chin against his chest and refuses to meet his eyes.

“So wait,” Patrick drags Johnny to stand between his legs, “it took my face on TV, 4 nights a week, for you to realize that we weren’t just hooking up? It wasn’t regularly scheduled Skype time while I was in Switzerland, or the fact that I made you switch cell phone plans because our texting costs a fortune otherwise, or the fact that I willingly bought protein shakes for you?”

Johnny pulls his head up a little and leans down to catch Pat’s lips mid-word, because really, and Johnny knows better than most, once Pat gets started on this rant it’s going to go on for a while.

Patrick doesn’t want to admit that it’s different when they’re crawling up the bed and stripping off their clothes. But it is. He’s known since the Detroit series that Johnny loves him. He knew when he came out of the shower after game 6 and Johnny was already there, already curled in his bed like he needed Pat just as much as Pat needed him to remind him just exactly what it was they were fighting for. But now, now that Johnny’s said it out loud, admitted what Pat saw in the moments before they turned out the lights. It still means something more.

They’re infinitely better at this than they used to be. They’re a hundred times more comfortable with each other's bodies. Johnny quirks an eyebrow and rolls Patrick under him. They both get lost in the rhythm, the easy way their bodies slide back together. Pat doesn’t have to say anything for Johnny to know he’s ready, doesn’t have to arch his hips to help Johnny find the spot that lights him up from inside.

Johnny drags out the prep because he can, because Pat gets so, so honest when Johnny’s sliding his fingers against his prostate, and Johnny’s willing to admit that he wants to hear just exactly how much Pat wants him, just exactly how much Pat missed him. 

If for no other reason than to know that all the feelings welling up inside him are mirrored back.

There’s always a little amazement when they do this. That Johnny knows Patrick’s body this well, the years of experience behind that knowledge, the startling realization that there’s no one else he wants to be with, nowhere else he’d rather be.

Later, while the sweat cools and they’re all smashed against each other warding off the chill of air conditioning, Patrick laughs quietly.

“I came to your Cup day, we had sex, in the boat, on the lake, at sunset in front of Lord Stanley’s Cup. And it was my face on a stupid TV show that convinced you that you loved me.”

Patrick tries to swallow the giggle that slips out and it turns into a snort that he tries to cover with a cough and soon enough his chest is shaking and Johnny’s chest is shaking and when he finally catches his breath he catches Pat’s mouth again. The kiss this time is light and sweet and easy and everything Johnny has missed this summer.

They sleep tucked together in the room with no lamps and no pictures and no headboard and Johnny sleeps better than he has all summer and the house in Kenora feels more like home than it ever has before.


End file.
